It seems like weeks ago that I fell down and went boom, but
it was only last Friday. Three days ago. I ought to be back up and walking and driving
by now, I’ve told myself a dozen times.
But nooo… it seems my body has a timeline of its own these days, and it
forgot to send me the message. Such is
the fate of an octogenarian, I suppose.
This morning bright and early, three ladies showed up at my doorstep
armed with boxes and tape and markers and muscles and energy and good balance
and excellent eyesight. They brought
laughter and conversation and hugs. And
they brought me hope and healed my heart.
They understood this was my first day to get out in public with a walker. They laughed with me as I learned to navigate
with the cotton-pickin’ thing. They helped
me get into the passenger seat. Trust me,
all you young-uns, it ain’t all that easy.
After working their magic with boxes and tape for a couple
of hours, they packed up their vehicles and off we went. The delivery of my new refrigerator was
scheduled, the new garage door opened without a hitch, the boxes of breakables
were all put inside their appropriate rooms at the new place – and it felt so
odd to just sit and watch them. Frustration. Guilt.
Sadness. How can I learn to live
like an invalid and how could I ever repay them?
By lunchtime we all realized the rest of the day would be
rained out. They at least let me buy them
all a tortilla burger and/or a hot dog at DairyLand, a local groovy place since
the 1960s. After they drove me home and
went on their merry ways, I got to thinking how lucky I am to have as my close
friends one retired municipal judge, plus the one and only mother of our local high
school’s head football coach, and a transplanted New Yorker who has been in Alvin
so long she can remember more about this town’s history than most natives.
